Seven Stages
by Tarafina
Summary: After a loss of the worst kind, Oliver is faced with the seven stages of grief.


**Title**: Seven Stages  
**Category**: Smallville  
**Genre**: Angst/Tragedy/Romance  
**Ship**: Chloe/Oliver  
**Rating**: PG13  
**Word Count**: 4,591  
**Summary**: After a loss of the worst kind, Oliver is faced with the seven stages of grief.

**_Seven Stages_**

**i** – _Shock_

The voices, they fade. Their explanations, their sorrowful apologies.

He's sitting in a hospital room, his palms on his knees, and his chest stinging from the pounding of his heart. There's a buzzing in his ears, his mouth is dry, he can't blink, can't breathe, can't move. He thinks somebody might be touching his arm, asking if he's okay.

_We did everything we could_.

He tries to shake his head, tries to focus but he can't.

_There was too much blood loss… She flat-lined twice…_

There are questions; he feels them at the back of his throat. But his tongue, it's swollen; he can't make words, can't ask what he so wants to.

Why?

Why her?

How?

What happened?

And so he sits and he waits. He waits for his lungs to stop screaming for air and his stomach to stop clenching. He waits for the burning in his eyes to cease because he _doesn't _cry. He never cries. And he doesn't care what they say or what happened because Oliver Queen does not cry and Chloe Sullivan does not _die_.

It could be minutes, maybe hours.

And then he's moving. He's walking. He's leaving the hospital and he's not stopping when they reach for him, try to keep him there. He shrugs them off, pushes them away. He doesn't see who it is; a nurse, a friend, it doesn't matter. Because he's roaming the dark streets now and he's not seeing anything. He's just moving and wiping at those non-existent tears. His face is _not _wet and that noise, distant in his roaring ears, that's not him sobbing either.

There is blood on his clothes. Hers. It's soaked through; he can feel it on his skin. Cold now.

It's a long walk from the hospital to his apartment but he never stops. Not for red lights or cars, he just keeps going. Until suddenly he's home, in his dark high-rise apartment with nothing but the silence all around him.

And he sits, his hands on his knees, and he waits for it all to stop.

He doesn't sleep, he doesn't eat, he doesn't move.

People come and they go, they sit and they talk, and he doesn't acknowledge them. They try to get him to focus, to snap out of it, and he ignores them.

Because in his head, in this silence and overwhelming calm, there is nothing to fear or hurt. He simply is.

**ii** – _Denial_

It takes three days before he stands up, stretches, and the shock has faded, it's gone. He walks to the kitchen and he prepares two cups of coffee, one for him and one for her. He doesn't know where she is, he doesn't know why she's not there. It's just after six in the morning and she's not asleep in their bed. The right side is hers, he prefers to be between her and any door. A precaution, safety, he has to keep her from whatever might come.

_You're being paranoid_, she always tells him.

No, he was being careful.

While others might look at him and think he has so much, limitless possibilities, whatever he could ever want at his fingertips, there were few things he actually took to heart, that he held on to with all of himself. She wasn't a possession but she was the only person in the world he would give everything for. She already had his trust, his heart, his body, and she asked for no more. And all he asked was that she be okay; that she let him keep her safe.

But she wasn't here. She wasn't in the kitchen, reading the world news or at the computer, searching for clues or doing her emails. She wasn't anywhere in the apartment. He checked the bathroom, she wasn't there and the shower hadn't been used recently. Odd, but when he looked in the mirror it looked like blood was on his clothes. That didn't make sense. Why would there be blood?

He can't remember what he'd been doing. He can't remember anything except when he last saw her. They'd been walking, hadn't they? To the car… She had an armful of files and she refused to let him carry them for her.

_I have two perfectly good arms, thank you!_

_Chivalry isn't dead, Sidekick, but you're killing it_, he replied charmingly.

She rolled her eyes at him, stuffed her work in the backseat and then went to climb in the front.

And then his memory ends; it goes blank.

He remembers smiling at her, circling the car, and then nothing.

He calls her cell phone, gets her answering machine.

_You've reached Chloe Sullivan; if I'm not answering it's for one of three reasons… I'm deep into work, I'm kidnapped and need help, or I'm currently in bed with Ollie… Hey, a girl can brag! _She laughs lightly, sweetly. _Leave a message or save me already!_

He grins and there's an ache in his chest but he ignores it. He leaves a short message, _Where are you? Gimme a call. Love you. Bye._ And when he hangs up he puts her coffee in the microwave to wait for her while he sits down to drink his own. He reads his half of the paper, on stocks and mergers, all business related, and then he reads hers. He likes to know what she knows, what she's been thinking. He'll debate with her later about what's going on and whether it should or shouldn't.

He spends the day at home, waits for her, never gets a call back and starts to worry.

When he calls Lois, she sighs in relief. "Are you at home? Are you okay?"

His brow furrows. "Don't you have call display?"

She paused. "Yeees…." she admits. "Ollie… Why haven't you called?"

He frowns. "Was I supposed to? Last I checked, I didn't have a 'call Lois' daily requirement."

She scoffs. "Daily? Try weekly, buddy. I haven't spoken to you since…"

"Since what?" he asks, bewildered.

She's quiet and he starts to worry, to wonder.

"What's going on?" he asks, his tone deep, suspicious.

"Stay there," she murmurs, somehow tearful. "Just… Just stay there, okay?"

And so he does, because there are few things in this world that get Lois Lane upset.

His chest hurts again, he rubs it. He thinks his heart might be trying to tell him something but he can't remember what.

When she gets there, she's a mess. Her hair is in disarray and her mascara is smudged; she stares at him a long moment, her mouth wobbles.

"You don't _know_… do you?"

"Know what?" He crosses his arms over his chest, feels a tremor of trepidation run through him. He wants to leave now, he's not sure he wants to hear what she has to say.

"Oliver…" her voice cracks. "What's the last thing you remember?"

He looks away from her, his brows furrow as he focuses. "We were walking… She had so many folders and papers…" He smiles to himself. "She's so stubborn," he muttered, chuckling under his breath. "And then… Then…" He shakes his head, grimaces suddenly. "We came home, we were fine… But I don't know where she is now… I don't…" He runs a hand over his face, pauses. How long has it been since he shaved? Since he _slept_?

"You _didn't _come home," she tells him, looking around sadly. "At least not together…"

He shakes his head. "You're wrong… We always stay here… All of her things are here, there's no point in her staying at the Tower…"

"Oliver…"

"She moved in last year…" He blinks rapidly, trying to clear his burning eyes. "She wanted to repaint… Said she could only put up with so much green." He laughs, but it breaks, shatters on a sob.

He doesn't know why, can't understand why it hurts so much.

"Oliver she was shot… There was an ambush at the car…" Lois walks toward him slowly, her hands out. "You were cut… You had to get stitches, don't you remember?" She touches his side and he feels the pain but he doesn't care, because she's wrong. There's no way he'd forget something like that.

"No…" He tries to walk away from her.

She grabs him, holds him in place. "_Listen _to me," she pleads. "It's been four days, okay? You brought Chloe into the hospital, she was… she was _hurt_." Staring up at him, her brown eyes filled with tears, she tries to see if it's registering yet. "They took her into surgery but Ollie… She didn't live, sweetie… She didn't make it…" Her voice falls then, her head following, and she cries.

He knows he should hold her, should pat her back and tell her it'll all be okay, but he can't.

Because she's lying.

"No… No she's fine… She's just busy. She-She got caught up at work or something…" He pulls away from her, paces, tries to find a logical answer. "I don't…" He glares at her. "I don't know why you'd lie about this… She's your _cousin_, you love her… She'll be home soon, I know it."

She wipes her face, tries to look strong but fails. "You can't deny this, Oliver… Look at yourself…" She points at him, waves at the mess of his clothes. The blood, it stains his clothes, makes them stiff. "She was with you… They got her first… You got her away, took her to the hospital, they tried to save her but… they couldn't."

"No, no, no…" He keeps repeating it, covers his ears and closes his eyes. She's wrong, she's so wrong.

And then his knees fail him and he's on the floor and his heart, his chest, it aches so much now.

Because it's true. Because she's dead. Because he couldn't save her.

**iii** – _Anger_

"Get out," he orders.

She stares at him, confused.

He looks up from his place on the floor, his body reverberating with anger. "Out. GET OUT!"

She flinches, lowers her gaze and then nods. She says nothing and he knows it's all wrong, because Lois Lane would fight. She'd scream and yell and slap him for being an ass. But she goes, silently, and she doesn't look back.

He hears the elevator door close, breathes in the silence again.

_She's gonna get you for that later_, Chloe's voice says in his ear.

And he knows it, but he can't make himself care.

Instead, he climbs up off the floor and he goes to his room. He tears off his clothes, leaves them on the floor and drags on whatever's closest. Her blood is still on his skin, it makes his stomach turn. He doesn't care. He leaves the apartment, goes to the nearest liquor store and stocks up. Before long, he's drinking himself into a stupor.

_You promised_, she whispers in his head.

He swallows tightly.

He knows. He knows what he said.

Three years he's been sober, hasn't touched a drop. She kept him sane, listened to him rant and rave when he couldn't turn to a drink to get the load off. She accompanied him to his first AA meeting, held his hand as he listened to everyone's stories and awaited his own turn.

_I'm Oliver… And I'm an alcoholic_.

She was proud, she nodded at him and she held his gaze. And when he got his chip for three years, she poured them sparkling grape juice and cheered on his achievement.

Not one drop. Until today.

Today he drank every bottle put in front of him. He passed out, woke up, drank more, tore up their apartment until it was nothing but a mess of broken furniture. Laying in their bed, he stayed on the left, wouldn't touch her side. It still smelled like her but it didn't comfort him now. It only made him angrier.

Every one he loved… they always left. Whether they walked away or died, it was always the same. He wanted to hate her, screamed it at her ghost in the dead of night.

"God I hate you… I hate you so much…"

But he knew he didn't… And were she there, alive, she would too.

He hid in his apartment until the others came around, looking for him, wanting to get him out of his funk. And then he left, boarding the Queen jet and setting out for wherever the hell he could. He had nothing but a bottle of scotch and a picture of them, nothing else mattered.

He stayed in Hotel rooms, but in the dead of night he'd find himself alone, without her there to wrap his arms around, and he would snap. He would trash the rooms until security ordered him to leave and then he'd be in a cab, onto the next place for a night or two, until they too were tired of his behavior. She would have calmed him, would've held him and soothed the anger away with nothing but a few snarky words and a kiss. But she wasn't and so his anger rose and rose until he was nothing but rage and alcohol and a broken man lying on the floor, holding a picture of a smiling woman he'd never hold again.

Three months he spent abroad, getting forced out of every motel he ever stepped into until finally, he returned home.

**iv** – _Bargaining_

It was clean and empty and he sat down on the couch, hands on his knees, and prayed.

"I know you and me don't really have that great of a track record," he says, looking up to the roof as if he expects God to appear and nod. "But if you could just…" His jaw clenches. "If you could change this… Just this _one thing_…" His eyes burn. "I'll do anything… Just… Give her back… _Please…_"

He gets no answer.

So then he tries offering himself instead and when that doesn't work, he thinks maybe money will. What the hell God needs with money, he doesn't know. But he's got billions and he's willing to give up every damn dime. And every second that passes and she doesn't appear, alive and well, he gets more and more upset. He offers a better him; says he'll be whoever God wants him to. He'll go to church, he'll give his money to charity, he'll marry her just so they won't be having premarital sex. He planned to, anyway, he tells God.

"I was going to marry her, I swear… Something small because she hates all the crowds and the subterfuge and the playing nice with politicians… Just me and her and a few close friends… And I'd never break my vows, not to her…"

But God doesn't bite, doesn't give him what he wants and so Oliver is left alone again, with nothing to do but wish things were different.

**v** – _Guilt_

He blames himself. Not those who killed her, not those who were the reason for them being there in that moment.

He should've saved her, should've killed anyone who dared hurt her. And what did he get for what little he did? A few stitches? It was weak; he was disgusted with himself.

She'd been stabbed repeatedly, all while he fought off the others, and he couldn't even get her to the hospital in time for them to save her. A few more minutes, maybe, a better doctor, perhaps. He'd failed. It was his fault. He promised to save her and he didn't.

_He tucked her hair behind her ear, watched as her lips curled with affection and a soft sigh escaped her. "You're worrying again, aren't you?"_

_He frowned. "Not exactly."_

_Rolling over, she cocked a brow at him, her sleepy green eyes pinning him with knowing. "This is the price we pay…"_

_He stared searchingly. "Does it have to be so much?"_

_She sighed, cupping his face in her hand. "Nobody lives forever."_

_"So I just have to accept that one of these days your luck will run out?" He scoffed, turning his eyes away to glare into the darkness._

_She curled herself up against him, kissed his chest softly. "You can't save me, Oliver… Fate's set, so lets just enjoy whatever time we have together…" She stroked his neck, knowing his weakness and smiled as he relaxed against her. "For all you know, we'll be grey and old and our wrinkles will have wrinkles when it's finally our time."_

_He sighed into her hair, hugged her tight and nodded. "I'm gonna keep you safe," he vowed._

_It didn't matter what she said, she couldn't change his mind. _

He hates himself; hates that he'll never see her as a mother, a grandmother. He hates that her smile is a memory now; one so imprinted in his mind it physically hurts. And it's his fault; he won't accept any different. The cops found who did it; they'd been charged and were awaiting trail. He didn't care. He should've saved her; he should've deflected the deadly blows. It should've been him, not her.

It didn't matter what anyone said, they couldn't change his mind.

_He _killed her. By not saving her; it was all on him.

**vi** – _Depression_

He was fairly certain his business was well on its way to tanking. The team is on its own, what few friends he has are completely ignored, and he's so deep into the bottle it seems there's no way out. He spends his days on the couch; rarely showering, eating, or even bothering to answer the phone. He doesn't answer the buzz of the elevator as people came calling, instead waiting for it to fade and the silence to return. As a man who's been through enough and seen the worst side of most things, suicide has honestly only been an option once in his life. And later, he was happy he hadn't died that night, standing on a podium as Toy Man played puppeteer. He'd made up for his mistakes and he'd gone forward, finding love and true partnership in someone just as jaded as him.

But she's gone now and hope seems unreachable. There was no one to drag him from the gutter and set him on the right track, nobody to hold his hand at his AA meeting and no arms to welcome him home each night. She wasn't there to help clean up his cuts from a night of patrolling, teasing him all along that he was a baby as he flinched and complained that iodine stung. He wouldn't wake up to make two cups of coffee or smile as she left their bedroom wearing his tossed button-up shirt, flashing thigh at him that only made him want to drag her back to bed. No more green eyes filled with warmth and humor, no more sweet laughter that made his stomach clench with affection; it was all over now.

His days are for wallowing; for staring out windows and watching as the sun rises and sets, another day without her. He lays in a disjointed mess that cares about nothing. When he gets tired of the phone ringing, he kicks it off the hook and leaves it on the floor. Time is an illusion; passing him by in long periods of depression that leave him tired and restless and overwhelmed with grief.

This isn't an acquaintance that died; this wasn't a Jimmy Olson or an enemy like Lex Luthor… This was the love of his life; a woman he planned to marry one day. This was his Sidekick; his partner against crime. Without her, he falls apart; his _world _falls apart. No doubt the board of Queen Industries had stripped him of his titles and were going over his head to remove him from any decision making. He doesn't care. If the team hasn't yet disbanded, it was going on as best it could. They'd be fine without him. They'd come this far, he'd taught them what he could; they'd survive.

He makes excuses, lays in a tub of steaming hot water with a glass of wine in one hand a toaster nearby. It'd be so easy. But even as his eyes are raw and his throat coarse, even as he lays like an opposing mirror image, the gutter that Oliver Queen now is, he can't take that last step and end it all. Running a hand down his scruffy face, he sighs. She would hate him for it. She would call him a coward and kick his ass for taking this way out.

But damn does it ever hurt. It courses through his veins like venom; eating away at him until he can hardly breathe or move or fathom tomorrow. It's all today and yesterday; the days of her and the days without.

A year… Twelve months of never-ending depression that stole his life from him. And on the 366th day he calls Emil.

**vii** - _Acceptance_

He visits her grave. He couldn't bring himself to do it before, but he thinks he might be able to handle it now. He's got a bouquet of tulips for her and a heart full of apologies. When he stops at her grave, he stares at the stone angel, blinks as tears burn his eyes. His mouth wobbles but he inhales deeply, refuses to cry.

"Thirty days," he tells her. "I'll get my one month chip today…" He swallows, smiles rather bitterly. "Again."

He gets no answer.

The wind is strong, rustling dried flowers on other graves. The cemetery is empty save for a groundskeeper on the other side, far away from him.

"You'd be proud of me again," he murmurs. "I got myself out of the gutter this time… With a little help from Emil and J'onn."

He wipes his sweaty palms on his pants, kneels to lay her flowers down where grass has grown through the dirt.

"I'm seeing a counselor… Nice guy… Doesn't say much, mostly just lets me do all the talking…" He looks away, clenches his jaw. "I talked to Lois, finally… She's not as mad as I thought she'd be… She only yelled at me for an hour and then she forgave me… Says I have to come over for Sunday dinner at the Kent farm." His breath catches then and he rubs his eyes harshly. "I'm scared I'll get there and the seat next to be will empty… waiting for you."

Licking his lips, he stares up, wishing tears hadn't clouded his vision.

"I miss you," he whispers, voice broken. "Every day… Every time I wake up and reach for you and you're just… you're _not _there…" Tears escaped, sliding warmly down his cheeks. "And I want to apologize but I know you'll tell me not to… You'll tell me it's not my fault and it was just your time and you'll…" He squeezed his eyes tight and tightened his jaw, a sob caught painfully in his throat. "You'll tell me to forgive myself," he croaks.

Reaching out, he traces the letters of her name, carved into green marble with pristine perfection. "And I can't… not yet… But I _will_… For you, I will… I just need some more time… I just need…" _you_. He doesn't say it though because it's not possible and he's accepted that now.

With a sigh, he stands, stuffs his hands in his pockets and stares sadly at the angel once more. "I've got a meeting tonight… I'm opening… They want me to share my story and I guess that means sharing you…" He lifts a shoulder, lets his gaze fall. "After that, I'm calling the team in… It's been awhile and I've got a lot to make up for… But they'll forgive me, I think…" He smiles. "If only because you'd want them to."

With a deep breath, he closes his eyes and just waits. There's no sound, nothing. It's just him in a cemetery, wishing things were different.

"I love you," he whispers.

And for a moment, just a fraction of time, he swears he can feel her there. He can feel her hands on his face and hear her soft laughter in his ears.

_I love you, too_.

He leaves, walks with his head tall and a future he can look forward to. He doesn't know what's out there, but just knowing there's a tomorrow is better than what he had before.

**viii** - _Aftermath_

He visits her grave just to talk; to share his life with her. He's not sure if she can hear him, but he does it anyway.

He gets his 30 day chip and then his one year. And eventually, he's so sober he doesn't remember what alcohol even _tastes _like. And he doesn't want to remember.

He doesn't date, just can't find the urge to anymore. The tabloids paint him like some sad and pathetic billionaire, forever destined to live alone and mourn her. He doesn't argue the possibility. The team has forgiven him and eventually, when his hands don't shake every time he gets near his gear, he picks up his duo-identity and returns to the work they both loved. He won't let anyone touch her Watch Tower; only him. He learns the ins and outs of computer just so he can master her system and not have somebody else come in.

They house dinners there, holidays and celebrations. He knows she would've wanted it that way. The table is surrounded by new and old faces; friends and family. Food and conversation flows; a cheer and a prayer for good health and good people. He puts on a smile expected of him and he keeps up the lifestyle she would've wanted for him. Even if the chair next to him is always empty. He doesn't drink, doesn't let his lingering depression do him under, and he sees his counselor once or twice every couple weeks. He checks in with Emil often, doesn't mind the stipulation the League put upon their return. He would have to stay sober and maintain his health if he wanted them to stay a team. He's got a sponsor that keeps him on his toes and he's finished the Twelve Steps of recovery.

As the years go on and the League expands, he takes pride in their work. He sees the world take heed and get better and he meets the opposition without flinching. He has a brief romance with Dinah but it never works; he just doesn't feel the pull or the spark. He tries and it fails and he only misses her more. He cries at her grave the next day, begs her forgiveness and feels like he's cheated on her. He gives up on companionship after that. He can't and won't do it anymore.

Eventually, age catches up.

At seventy years old, a retired billionaire that always shared when charity was concerned, a secret superhero that saved the world a time or three, Oliver Queen lays down arms. In his metropolis apartment, laying on the left side of the bed, hand reaching for the absent person to his right, he dies in his sleep. He's accomplished much, he's done her proud, and when his wrinkles have wrinkles, he simply _stops_.

His friends bury him next to her, wish him well, and celebrate the long and prosperous life he lived. Finally, he can rest and be happy. He was with her now, all were sure. Oliver Queen and the love of his life, lost too soon. It was just him and Chloe now; forevermore.


End file.
